"What?"
"Your father was alive in 1994."
"Then why does this photograph say he disappeared that night?"
"I don't know what photograph you're talking about."
"His name is written on the back. Denise Vale gave it to me."
I heard her breathing become uneven.
"Did you meet Denise?"
"She came to my house."
"Then you need to stay away from her."
"Why?"
"Because she was involved."
"Involved in what?"
My mother didn't answer.
"Mom, the police report says Dad died in 2004. Is that true?"
Another silence.
Then she said something that made my legs feel weak.
"Your father came home in 1994."
I gripped the edge of the kitchen table.
"What do you mean?"
"He came home that night. He was frightened. He told me someone had followed him from Briar Glen."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because he made me promise not to."
"Where did he go after that?"
"He left again."
"Why?"
"He said he had to retrieve something. Something he'd hidden before the company could get it."
I stared at the photograph.
"Did he come back?"
My mother began to cry.
"No."
The word seemed to hang between us.
"Then what happened?"
"I received a phone call three days later. A man told me Robert had been involved in an accident. He said the authorities would contact me. They never did."
"Did you see his body?"
"No."
I closed my eyes.
For twenty-two years, I had believed I knew how my father died.
Now I wasn't even certain he had died when I thought he had.
"Why did you tell me he died in 2004?"
"Because that's the date on the death certificate."
"Who gave you that certificate?"
"I don't remember."
"Mom."
"I was scared. I had you to raise. Someone told me that if I kept asking questions, you might be in danger too."
I sat down slowly.
"Who told you?"
She didn't answer.
"Was it someone from Harrow?"
"I don't know."
"Was it Thomas Vale?"
"No."
"Martin Cole?"
"I don't know."
"Then who?"
My mother took a shaky breath.
"Arthur Harrow's lawyer."
I looked toward the window.
The street was quiet. A garbage truck was moving slowly past the houses, stopping at each driveway.
"What's the lawyer's name?"
"Edward Mercer."
The name struck me immediately.
Alan Mercer.
The deputy records director at the county building.
"Are they related?"
"I don't know. Robert told me the lawyer had a son who worked in county administration. I never met him."
I wrote the name down.
"Mom, there's something else. Dad left a notebook. He wrote that the chamber was never the only danger. Do you know what that means?"
She began crying harder.
"I don't want you to go there."
"Go where?"
"To that station."
I froze.
"How do you know about the pumping station?"
My mother didn't answer.
"Mom, how do you know?"
Finally, she whispered:
"Because that's where I last saw your father."
The call ended a few seconds later.
I remained seated, looking at the photograph.
The old pumping station was no longer just another place on a map.
It was the last place my mother had seen my father alive.
And Denise wanted me to meet her there that night.
At noon, I drove to the police station.
Officer Bennett was in his office, reviewing paperwork. When I told him about my mother's confession, he stopped writing.
"She says she saw your father at the pumping station in 1994?"
"Yes."
"And someone later issued a death certificate dated 2004?"
"That's what she told me."
He leaned back.
"Have you seen the certificate?"
"No."
"Do you know where it was issued?"
"Not yet."
"Then we'll need to verify it."
I placed the photograph on his desk.
"This is Denise and my father. It was taken at the pumping station."
Bennett examined it carefully.
"She gave you this?"
"Yes."
"Did she say why?"
"She wants me to meet her there tonight."
His expression hardened.
"Absolutely not."
"I thought you'd say that."
"Mr. Hale, someone has been entering your property, leaving threats, and trying to access a potentially dangerous underground structure. Now your neighbor wants to lure you to an abandoned industrial site after dark."
"She says she knows what happened to my father."
"Then she can tell us."
"She won't."
"Why?"
"She says she can't tell me here."
Bennett placed the photograph back on the desk.
"That's convenient."
I took a breath.
"I don't want to go alone."